


If At First

by Rivine



Category: The Ritual (2017)
Genre: M/M, Mindfuck, Other, Time is an illusion reality is an illusion everything is an illusion oh God why, Vice and Fen Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 19:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20297119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivine/pseuds/Rivine
Summary: Everything is not fine at all.





	If At First

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).

There was a crashing in the brush at the edge of the forest. Luke stumbled to a stop, warily turning toward the thin finger of trees that pointed out into the open hillside. He was well back from it, but the snapping and rustling of branches was loud even so in the still morning air.

The noise was coming closer. Luke started to back away, raising the axe.

“Luke?”

The axe faltered in his hands.

A figure was almost visible through the vegetation.

“Hutch?” Luke said, his voice catching in his throat.

“Lukey! You made it.” The figure was struggling weekly through the brush.

The voice was right, and so was the shape of him, as he came closer to the edge of the forest. But Hutch was dead, he had been dead and cold and ripped open on that tree.

“That thing was fucking with my head,” Hutch said. “Making me see things. See you. I thought you were— I thought I was a lone out here, mate. The things she did…” He was almost among the last of the trees, and he winced, clutching at his side and sagging against a trunk.

Luke went to him.

Hutch’s grip on Luke’s arm was strong, as Luke helped steady him and push aside the brush in his way. His hand, though— his hand was grey, mottled with pallor and dark, bruise-like spots and Luke felt his crawling dread rise up, but no. No, that was just the fluorescent lighting washing out Rob’s skin. Fluorescent light always did that at night, it was fine. Rob was fine. He was holding Luke’s shoulder, turning him around. They were going to leave. They were going to forget about the vodka, and leave the shop with its glaring fluorescent lighting, and go back out into the cool dark of the night. It was a good idea. Luke knew that, because— because something had happened here, something terrible, and if they left now, if they left right away and went to where they should be, in the dark, then Rob wouldn’t— Rob wouldn’t die.

Luke pulled away, numbed by the thought. He tried to figure out what was going on, because Rob _had_ died, hadn’t he?

Rob stopped, and it wasn’t Rob, it was Hutch. Why had he thought it was Rob?

“I’m so fucking glad you made it, Luke,” he was saying. He put his other hand on Luke’s shoulder. “I’m so glad it was _you_.”

Hutch’s eyes were bright, so bright, but he was leaning in, kissing Luke, and Luke closed his eyes. Hutch’s mouth was cold, but it got freezing out here at night, and Hutch must be chilled to the bone.

Luke had never thought Hutch had any interest. He’d looked for hints, and he’d dropped a few himself, on occasion, but never saw anything that seemed like a positive response. But now Hutch was kissing him, holding him.

His tongue felt strange, like— like something else, like something wrong, like— like calamari—

Hutch started to run his hands down Luke’s body, his chest and his side, and Luke leaned into his touch. It was fine. Hutch was here. Hutch was alive, and everything was fine.


End file.
